


In this Season

by clockworkmargaret (morganya)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Body Positivity, Feeding, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11820369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/clockworkmargaret
Summary: Vince wants in on the new plus-size trend, and Howard discovers a talent.





	In this Season

Howard first noticed that something was up after he came back from the weekly grocery shop and was making his way down Camden High Street to get to Mornington Crescent. He paused for a moment to rearrange the shopping bags and then when he looked up a girl was standing there smiling at him and preening her hair.

"Hello," she said. "Lovely day, isn't it? Been busy?"

She was impeccably dressed and perfectly made up and the kind of person who ordinarily would never pay any sort of attention to Howard. Howard must have cut quite a dashing figure on the high street. He just needed to whip out some classic Moon charm and seal the deal.

"Yes," Howard said. "Busy. Been shopping. Shopping for…" It occurred to him that maybe a poetic yet virile man with an intriguingly tragic past wouldn't buy malt extract and sultanas. He should think of something more appropriate. "For hand grenades. Hand grenades for gardening. Gardening…rose bushes. Vicious creatures, rose bushes. Have to sneak right up on them and. And just…What's your name?"

The girl's smile had frozen into a rictus. She looked to the side and said, "Yes. I forgot it at home, actually." She turned and walked away very quickly.

"Right," Howard said quietly, picked up the bags and made his way towards the Tube.

He got home and found Vince sitting disconsolately among a pile of magazines. He barely managed to raise his eyes enough to say, "Awright, Howard."

"Why you make me go tromping all over London for three or four things I'll never know," Howard said. "When do you want your miniscule amount of food?"

Vince pushed _Cheekbone_ aside. Howard wondered why the issues were just lying around. Normally Vince rushed through them, absorbing any pertinent trends, and either put them aside to use in one crafting project or another or just disposed of them. Vince stared at the floor and said, "There are more important things in life to worry about, Howard."

"My feet are bleeding," Howard said. "I lost a toe in Piccadilly. What's the matter with you now?"

Vince shook his head and sighed heavily. "It's all over for me, Howard."

Howard's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. He was about to go across the room, ignore his own urge to be sick and tell Vince that everything would be all right, when he remembered that Vince had pulled this exact same trick before. He'd gone and made Howard all worried and scared for something that ultimately turned out to be, like everything else in their lives, completely ridiculous. The need to reassure Vince was immediately replaced by the need to march over to the settee and bop him on his big weird broken nose. "It's all over, is it? What is it now? Another copy? What are they calling themselves, The Chai Tea Douche? We going to have to bust out another crimp?"

Vince looked hurt. "I'm _irrelevant_ , Howard."

"What do you mean, irrelevant? I thought you'd clawed your way back up the social ladder. Spend your nights impressing impressionable trendies."

"You'll find out sooner or later," Vince said. "Here." He thrust _Cheekbone_ at Howard.

Howard had a feeling he'd regret it, but he flipped through the pages anyway. He saw adverts for various hair products and alcohols on heavily scented pages with slang terms that he didn't understand. He said, "This looks the same as every other issue you get."

"You don't see it?"

"What? Shiny paper? Overpriced junk? Words that hurt my eyes?"

"You – unbelievable," Vince said. "I don't look like them. I'll never look like them."

Howard looked again. Apparently what he'd missed the first time around was that everyone in the magazine looked rather more fleshy than usual. "They look like they've actually had a decent meal. So what?"

Vince just looked miserable. "Check out the centerfold."

Howard looked. The title blared, "HOT COOL SEXY NOW!" in some appalling font, followed by a spread of photographs. A rosy-cheeked woman smiled triumphantly at the camera, rugby uniform rucked up over her generous, muscled stomach. A massive man in a Savile Row suit cradled a fluffy white Pomeranian while his partner held an equally massive Great Dane on a lead. Two androgynous people in full Goth regalia stared poetically off into hyperspace, vast swathes of flesh draped in chains and lace and velvet. Howard said, "And?"

"Curves are in now," Vince said. "There's no way I can live up to that."

"I've just been killing myself getting your bloody malt loaf ingredients because last week you said you were too fat."

"Well, that was before the magazines told me I was too thin, wasn't it?"

Howard stared at him. "You've got to stop letting magazines do this to you. None of this matters in the end."

"It matters to me, Howard."

"Half your mates are even thinner than you. You think they're freaking out?"

"You don't know my mates," Vince said. "They're all out of the city now. They've gone down to these fat farms in Devon. They lie around in dressing gowns eating chocolate cake and custard all day. I don't have that kind of money."

"Sounds a bit sickly to me," Howard said. "They'll all come back with diabetes."

"Yeah, but they'll be fashionable."

"By the time they get back they might be out of fashion again," Howard said. "I've lost track of all the fads and phases and fashions that have gone through there. Last year there was two weeks where everyone had to wear gloves on their feet. Then there was the one where everyone had to have helium balloons down their pants. Every last one of them, passed and gone."

"I've got to stay on top of things, Howard. One wrong move and I'll be tossed out with the rubbish."

"Well, what happens when being podgy isn't cool anymore? Does everyone just wait to become cool again or do they go back to trying to get thin and feeling miserable about themselves? You never know how long these will last. Maybe it's already over. Why, just this afternoon, I made the acquaintance of a lovely young woman in Camden who showed a lot of interest in me, and you'd never call me portly, would you?"

He knew Vince well enough to know when he was holding his tongue. There was only a slight hesitation, the big blue eyes flickering to the side, but Howard saw it. "What?"

"Nothing," Vince said.

"I am slim and _willowy_ , sir," Howard said. "People have said so. People who know what they're talking about. I can run through raindrops. I can run over raindrops. Gravity just hangs off me like a loose coat, I shrug it off when I want."

"Howard," Vince said, but Howard was already barreling past him to get to a mirror. He barely even noticed the usual things that bothered him this time. All he could see was the pouch under his jaw and the soft roll of pudge around his middle broadcasting years of late night curries and lager. He poked his belly to see if it would retract back into his body.

"Come on, Howard," Vince said behind him.

"I used to be a mere slip of a thing," Howard said. "Look at me."

"I thought it didn't matter," Vince said.

"It doesn't," Howard snapped. He jabbed a finger under his chin.

"Stop freaking out then," Vince said. "You're beyond fashion anyway. Like a Yorkshire oak."

"The winds of change may blow this way and that, but Howard Moon will not be moved," Howard said dully.

"And you're nine feet tall. A little extra heft makes you more imposing. You're fine just as you are."

Howard reexamined his reflection with a critical eye. In the right light, he could be distinguished. A solid, immovable man of the world, heavy with knowledge and insight. He gave his belly a reassuring stroke and turned away before he could start obsessing about any new wrinkles that might have formed over the week. Vince took advantage of the gap to scowl at himself in the mirror.

"Well, aren't you fine the way you are too?" Howard said. "Why don't you just wait five minutes until some other trend comes along? Then you can staple bubbles to your forehead or whatever they're doing and then you'll be back in fashion."

"I don't know if I can afford that," Vince said. "After the Electro Circus most of my mates didn't want to be seen with me. I was so uncool for a while that nobody wanted to even speak to me. I only managed to get my foot back in the door when that designer bloke, Vespertine, tried to make wallpaper out of dried halibut and everyone had someone new to laugh at. I can't slip up now."

"Well, if it's important to you, then why don't you maybe try eating properly? If you had three hot meals a day instead of running off tea and cheap sweets, you'd be sure to put some weight on."

"Not interested. I haven't felt hungry since I was a nipper. I can't think of anything more boring than a sandwich."

"Well, if you don't want to eat, then how do you want to put on weight?"

"I don't know," Vince said. "I was trying to think of how. Maybe I should try the rock star route. Loads of whiskey and sleeping late."

"You already sleep late and you look like a twig," Howard said. "And you hate whiskey. You've got no tolerance for it. But…are recluses still cool?"

"Yeah," Vince said brightly. "Mystique's always good for the image."

"Why don't you disappear for a bit then? Make up some posh place and say you've gone there to put on a few stone. Hide out here until the next new thing comes along and then say you've had the fat suctioned out with a hose and reappear."

Vince thought for several minutes. "So everyone out there thinks I'm sat on a private island eating mash and peas and really I'm just here watching telly?"

"Exactly. Just until being skinny's back in fashion."

"Genius," Vince said happily. Howard would have said the same.

*****

Howard hadn't counted on the fact that a Vince deprived of his social outlets was a Vince who turned the flat into his own personal art studio. He covered every bare surface with sketches, sent Howard off to pick up fabrics and secondhand goods every twelve hours, and left cuttings and swatches everywhere and ensured that Howard was constantly tripping over something shiny. It was doing Howard's head in.

He had hoped that this new trend would come and go in two minutes like every other trend seemed to, but it seemed to be staying around. Every new _Cheekbone_ featured a cover photo of a perfectly airbrushed, burly model, staring out amidst blurbs screeching From Scrawny to Sexy! and Fat-Building Exercises for the Perfect Bikini Body! They came without fail every three hours.

"I don't know why you don't just put the subscription on hold and stop torturing yourself," Howard said as he cleaned the shop counter and Vince read his magazine.

Vince said something from his barber's chair but it was muffled behind yards of crepe fabric. Vince had attempted to use his self-imposed exile as an excuse to stop working shifts in the shop, but Howard had put his foot down. It was all well and good that Howard did all the driving and shopping and cooking and washing up as well as the occasional straightening of Vince's hair, but to do that plus run the Nabootique all by himself was something that Howard Moon simply would not stand for, _thank you very much, sir_. Vince compromised by coming to work in outfits – more like costumes – that hid his face. Today he was in a variation of Victorian widow's weeds, face hidden behind a black veil and a dress whose otherwise drab black fabric was modified with translucent PVC panels on the bodice and neon chevrons running up the skirt.

"Lift up the veil, Widow Deckard," Howard said wearily. "I can't hear you."

Vince flipped up his veil. "I said that the ninjas get paid by the delivery. Three kids are going to university based on my subscription alone. Cutting them off now is just cruel."

"Well, why do you keep looking at them then? Why don't you just throw them away?"

"Now you're talking crazy," Vince said. He turned a page. "They're doing a Top 10 Sexiest People spread here."

"You'd feel a lot better if you _did some work_ ," Howard said. "Why don't you restock a shelf?"

"Mm, not interested."

"I feel like I'm going to kill you," Howard said.

"Just continue my subscription after I'm gone, yeah?" Vince said. "Who did the editing on this shoot? They look like they're made of plasticine."

"How can you tell?" Howard came to look over Vince's shoulder. Cool, unsmiling faces looked back at him from glossy pages, chubby bodies stamped with black banners reading DREAMY or HOT or WOW! "Really, the only thing that's different from you and them is a few extra stone. Anybody could –"

They both saw the picture at the same time.

"Oh, _no_ ," Vince said. Howard was about to say the same, but then he saw a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye and said, "Quick, put the veil down."

Vince put the veil down just as the unmistakable rotund figure of Bob Fossil burst through the shop's door. He was wearing a crown. "What's up, crud licker!"

"Hello, Mr. Fossil," Howard said. "What can I do for you?"

"I'll tell you what you can do for me, Moon! You can get me a big freaking stick to beat off all the wild passionate monkey loving I've been having since I was in that magazine! I'm a total mother humping sex god!" Fossil punctuated his point with appropriate pelvic thrusts.

"Yeah, I don't think we've actually got any sticks in at the moment, Mr. Fossil," Howard said. "Have you tried the park at all?"

Fossil stopped thrusting and said pleasantly, "That was my next stop. I just thought I'd stop by and let you know that many people want to kiss me on the head and also the mouth. Not to mention that I wanted to formally announce my candidacy."

"Candidacy for what?"

"King of England!" Fossil said. "Now that that I'm Mayor Sexy Big Deal around here, the next thing I'm going to do is take over your dinky little country. I'm going straight to the top, Moon! Look, I even got one of those funny hats." He pointed to his crown. "So, can I count on your vote?"

"Mr. Fossil, you're not in America anymore. You can't be elected King of England. It's an entirely different political system."

"What?" Fossil said. "You mean I've been lied to? My illusions have been shattered! Stupid king hat!" He threw the crown across the shop, narrowly missing Howard's head. "This is worse than 'Nam! I'd be way more upset if I really understood what was happening! I'm going back to the Velvet Onion, where I'm appreciated!" He pointed at Vince, who was still frozen in the barber's chair. "And for Christ's sake, Moon, get your creepy sex doll out of here! You're scaring everybody!" Then he hurtled out of the shop, leaving nothing but a tinkling of bells behind.

"All right, that's it," Vince said. "Even Fossil's cooler than me now. The man's barely functional as a person. I've got to do something about this." He heaved himself out of the chair with a rustle of crepe. "Close up for me, will you, Howard?"

"It's one in the afternoon," Howard protested, but Vince was already leaving. Howard went to flip the sign to closed. It wasn't like he ever sold anything when Vince wasn't around anyway.

*****

He hadn't seen Vince for hours. Every scrap of fabric had disappeared from the front room and there was an unearthly whirring and clacking of machinery from Vince's room. Howard attempted to drown it out by playing his _Mysterious Traveller_ album at top volume.

As the last strains of Cucumber Slumber died away, he heard Vince calling, "Howard, I've got it." Howard turned the record player off and said, "Got what?"

Vince emerged from his room, wedging himself through the doorframe before attempting a triumphant arm raise. Everything from his ankles up to his neck was encased in multicolored padding, a riot of purple and yellow and green and red and orange and sparkles and sateen and acid-washed denim. There were dips and bulges where the padding didn't cover him completely. His head was absurdly tiny above the suit, a tiny black dot on top of the riot of colors and textures.

"Something's very wrong with you," Howard said.

"What do you mean?" Vince attempted a turn. His center of gravity was off and he wobbled on his feet. "This is the harlequin fat suit. It's going to put me back on the map."

"Put you back on the map? You can barely move. How are you even going to make it down the stairs?"

"Thought I could roll," Vince said. "C'mon, Howard. This is genius."

"This is insane," Howard said. "You look like a wood tick on acid. And anyone can see that it's just a suit. Your face is still all pointy."

"They're not going to be looking at my face. They're going to be checking out my gear."

"I don't think this is a case of wearing the right gear. If you want to gain weight, Vince, why don't you just try eating? You could stand to put on a stone or two anyway."

"This is fine," Vince said, then lost his balance and fell over. The suit was too bulky to allow him to hit the floor completely and his arms and legs waved helplessly in the air. Howard could see sweat running down his face.

"That's it," Howard said. "I'm getting Naboo."

"Naboo!" Vince said from the floor. "Why didn't I think of that? Of course we should get Naboo! He can give me something that will blow me up like a helium balloon! Howard, give me a hand, will you?"

"Right," Howard said. "How do you open this thing?"

"There's a clasp in the back –" Vince waved his arms.

Howard rolled him over and braced one knee against a violet patch while he undid the clasp. Vince was still stuck within the folds of fabric, so he put both hands in through the neck, grabbed hold of Vince's skinny shoulders and pulled. Vince came free with surprising force and sent them both sliding across the floor. Vince was sprawled in Howard's lap.

"Ready?" Howard said.

"Yeah, I think so," Vince said.

The door to Naboo and Bollo's room was closed. Howard knocked on it while Vince shifted nervously behind him. After a minute Bollo opened the door and looked suspiciously at them.

"Awright, Bollo," Vince said. "Naboo here?"

"Whatever you two are up to, leave me out of it," Naboo said from somewhere behind Bollo.

"We are packing," Bollo explained.

"What do you mean, you're packing?" Howard said. Vince gently moved him to the side and said, "Naboolio! Looking great!"

Naboo popped his turbaned head out from behind Bollo's fur. "Whatever you want, I'm going to say no. Bollo, don't let Vince try to charm you. Guard your eyes and get back to packing." Bollo clapped a paw over his face and retreated.

"Come on, Naboo," Vince said. "We haven't even said anything yet. Besides, my reputation is on the line."

"Something's always on the line with you," Naboo said wearily. "Me and Bollo are going on our bimonthly shamanic retreat, which you'd know if you'd listened the last six times I told you."

"Shamanic retreat?" Howard said. "What shamanic retreat? You're just going to go round to Pete's house and stare at the floor while Bollo remixes _Dark Side of the Moon_."

Naboo grinned beatifically. "Yeah."

"Oh, please, Naboo," Vince said. "This new plus-size trend is killing me. I can't even leave the flat in this state. Howard's doing my head in."

"I'm doing _your_ head in?"

Vince ignored Howard. "You sure you haven't got any spare concoctions lying around? Something that will inflate me a bit? Just a little?"

Naboo sighed. "Look, I can give you an appetite stimulant. I'll throw in some crushed aeonium to slow down your metabolism, and that's it. Don't say I never gave you anything."

"But that'll still take ages," Vince said.

"Boss," Bollo called. "Turntable will not fit in suitcase. Too many bongs in way. I got a bad feeling about this."

"I'll shrink it down in a minute," Naboo said. "Appetite stimulant or nothing, Vince."

Vince sighed. "Appetite stimulant, please."

"Right," Naboo said and ducked behind the door. There were some frankly disturbing crunching and clanging noises before he reappeared with a pretty rose bottle and handed it to Vince. "Drink this. The effects are only temporary, but they'll last long enough to get you on your way. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a turntable to shrink." He shut the door.

"Well?" Howard said.

"Bottoms up," Vince said. He chugged half the bottle, made a horrible face and chugged the rest. "Could be worse. Do I look any different?"

"How should I know?" Howard said and went to his bedroom. He'd had quite enough excitement for the day.

*****

Vince never came to work on time. Today was no different. Howard came down before the doors opened, bleary-eyed and still wiping breakfast toast crumbs from his mustache, gave the floor a cursory sweep and the counters a cursory wipedown, checked the stock and put money in the till. He flipped the sign to open just in time to accept Vince's nine o'clock magazine delivery.

Vince usually wandered down anywhere between nine thirty and ten with one fanciful excuse or another. Howard settled behind the counter to see what he'd come up with this time around.

Eventually he got bored.

He refused to stoop to willingly reading Vince's _Cheekbone_ , so he spent a pleasant time in Stationery Village trimming the desiccated strips from the sellotape tree and arranging the Blu-Tack garden. It was only when he looked up and realized it was half eleven that he became concerned.

He wondered if Vince had decided to go along with Naboo and Bollo on their trip to Pete's house, one more thing that Howard was left out of. But Vince wouldn't go anywhere if he was feeling less than fashionable, and whatever it was Naboo had given him probably hadn't taken effect yet. Unless that was the problem. Maybe something had gone wrong with the potion in a spectacular and grisly manner and the flat was covered in Vince parts now. He should probably go upstairs and assess things. He didn't know how long it would take. It was in the shopkeeper's manual, right in the front, that it was forbidden to leave the shop unattended. Bad things might happen. He might go check on Vince and the shop might sink into the ground. Maybe he should turn the sign around for a minute. That might prevent bad things from happening.

As Howard's mind continued spiraling, the door opened and Vince appeared. He was wearing what looked like a punk version of a matador's outfit with a beekeeper's veil stitched into the hat. Howard felt the relief like a punch in the stomach. He opened his mouth to say something like, "I was scared!" or "Is everything all right?" But his brain got caught up between violent relief and lingering irritation, and what he actually said was, "This better be good."

"Don't start, Howard," Vince said. He flipped his veil up.

"Oh, I'm starting, sir," Howard said. "I'm out of the gate. I'm running down the track. What time do you call this then?"

"I don't know. Whatever you want." Vince flung himself into his barber's chair.

"You're two hours late."

"So?"

"You don't even have an excuse, do you? You just waltz in and I'm supposed to be so overwhelmed by you choosing to show up to work that you don't even give me one of your fairy stories about why you're late?"

Vince rubbed his temples. "I'm not in the mood, Howard."

"I'm not in the mood to run the shop by myself."

"So what? It's not like it's even important."

"Oh, it's not important," Howard said. "It's so not important that I'm stood here having a row with Frankie the Beefighter about it when I could be selling stock. The lunchtime rush is due any minute."

"No, it's _not_ ," Vince said. He heaved himself out of the chair. "We're not going to have a rush because we never have a rush! No one ever buys anything in this shop! They come by and see your miserable, shriveled up husk of a face and decide to go somewhere else! Because you're a sad, pathetic, _old_ wanker and no one wants to be around you! Just _fuck off!_ "

Howard stared at him. All he could think to say was, "…We're the same age."

Vince's jaw was clenched. Howard was pretty sure if he made one move, Vince would fly at him like a crazed South London goose. He didn't know what to do. He was used to Vince being mocking, snide, sometimes thoughtlessly callous, but he wasn't used to Vince being actively cruel. He barely recognized him.

Vince grimaced and rubbed his temples again. His hands were shaking. Howard thought, _Oh._ This wasn't about work or even about Howard. Behind the rage in Vince's eyes, all Howard could see was a terrible, frantic hunger.

"Vince," Howard said, using his calming zookeeper voice, "what have you eaten today?"

"What?" Vince snapped.

"What," Howard repeated, "have you eaten today?"

Vince looked confused. "Tea."

"And?"

"Flying saucers."

"Yeah," Howard said. "How about going back upstairs? There are crackers and cheese in the fridge. Eat those and then come back."

"I don't _want_ any of your moldy, stinking cheese."

"Then you can leave," Howard said. "If you're going to keep being horrible, you can do that all by yourself."

Vince suddenly looked as if he might cry. He turned and left without saying anything.

Howard sighed. Really, he should have seen this coming. Vince couldn't be expected to jump into proper meals after years of living off sweets and the occasional blob of hummus, and he wasn't going to connect eating food with not being hungry, even with some magical assistance. This called for drastic action, for both their sakes. If this continued for much longer, Howard was going to wake up in the middle of the night and find Vince chewing on one of his legs.

The door opened hesitantly and Vince came back in, looking like the guiltiest person in the world. "Awright, Howard?" he said, very softly.

"How was the cheese?" Howard said.

"Fine. Cheesy," Vince said. Howard grunted in approval and pushed _Cheekbone_ at him. Vince looked like he wanted to say something else but came and took the magazine. He flipped the beekeeper veil back down and went to his chair. Howard settled back to wait for the lunchtime rush that never arrived.

*****

He started small. He forwent his usual breakfast of tea and toast and threw some porridge oats and milk in a pan with a bit of salt and then stood there, stirring and thinking about brass instruments, until he was satisfied. By the time Vince staggered out of his room in his usual state of wild hair and half-open kimono, Howard had set the table and was ready to spring into action.

"Vince," he called before Vince could disappear into the bathroom.

Vince groaned in response.

"Vince, come try this," Howard said.

"I've got to do my hair, Howard."

"Do it later. Come on."

Vince stumbled into the kitchen and flopped down at the table. Howard put a steaming bowl in front of him.

Vince looked disgusted. "What is this?"

"It's porridge. It's breakfast. Eat it before it gets cold."

Vince poked the rim of the bowl. "It looks like bleached sick."

Howard was offended. "It's perfectly fine. Cover it up with something if it offends your trendy fashion eyes. Look." He put a pat of butter on his porridge.

Vince still looked doubtful. It was time for Howard to bring out the big guns.

"I've got treacle," he pointed out. He held the squeezy bottle above his bowl, far higher than he would ordinarily be comfortable with, and made sure Vince saw the syrup cascading down before pooling on top of his porridge in a golden, sugary puddle.

That seemed to do it. "Let me see," Vince said. Howard handed over the treacle. Vince covered his porridge in enough syrup to make Howard feel a bit sick, added butter and then devoured it. Howard imagined a cheering crowd shouting his name.

Afterwards Vince looked somewhat wistfully at Howard's still-untouched bowl, so Howard gave it to him. Vince again doused everything in sugar and butter and wolfed the lot before leaning back, smiling contentedly and rubbing his belly. "Genius. Like being full of sugar clay."

"Yeah, it's all right," Howard said. He got up and stuck some bread into the toaster for himself.

"D'you think we could have porridge for breakfast again sometime?"

"I'll have to stock up on treacle. Maybe black treacle next time. Looks like an oil slick. Full of nutrition."

"Great," Vince said, grinning.

"You think you can make it to work on time now?"

"I still have to do my hair. And get my outfit ready. Perfection takes time, Howard."

"Perfection, is it?"

"Yeah." Vince wandered off. Howard grabbed up the still-hot toast and bolted it. He was on a tight schedule.

Knowing the extent of Vince's sweet tooth, he cut up some speckled bananas, chunked a few apples up and squeezed lemon over them to keep them from browning, then tossed in some whole oranges and a handful of raisins as an afterthought. Afterwards it still seemed a bit lacking in protein so he added a sealed container of peanut butter and some almonds. The finished product was too big to fit into a lunch box so he put the lot into a bigger container and brought it downstairs to the store room, where there was a minifridge. Then he got the broom and started his day.

He nearly forgot about it until some hours after Vince came to work, this time dressed as an urban pirate with an enormous three-corner hat and bandana. The big blue eyes had begun looking desperate and he was getting snarly, so Howard disappeared into the back room and came back with the container. He set it on the counter and opened it up.

Vince stopped whatever mean thing he was about to say and stared at the array of fruit and nuts. "Did you accidentally get into Bollo's snacks?"

"This is a highly nutritious, expertly crafted fruit salad," Howard said. "You'll never taste a better one."

"It looks like a greengrocer's exploded. What's that brown goo?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Vince, you've had peanut butter before. Put it on an apple or a banana. It'll stick to your ribs."

"Stick to the roof of my mouth, more like," Vince said, but deigned to eat a banana slice. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Doing what on purpose?"

"You made breakfast this morning and now you're making lunch."

"Not making, made."

"Same difference." Vince bit into an apple slice. "So you're doing this now, yeah? My own personal chef?"

"You nearly killed me yesterday because you were hungry. Until Naboo's potion wears off, it's easier to keep you fed."

"I guess that's right," Vince said. He spread some peanut butter on a banana slice and chewed it thoughtfully. "You think I'll stop being horrible if I eat?"

"It's a start."

"Okay," Vince said. He stuck his thumb into one of the oranges and began peeling it. "Hey, Howard, remember when we were about twelve and we would have beans on toast at your house after school? You used to make the best beans on toast."

"Student food," Howard said dismissively. He ate an apple slice. Vince had dismantled his orange and was popping three segments at a time into his mouth. "Easy, little man. If you eat too fast, you'll make yourself sick and this whole lunch will be a wash."

"They're only small."

"They'll stack up in your belly like Jenga blocks. They're small yet powerful."

Vince gave him a look. "Right." Howard refused to dignify that with a response.

After closing up shop for the night, Howard started on dinner. The schedule was still tight so he picked something easy to make, grabbing some pasta and jarred tomato sauce and putting water on to boil. He tested the sauce by opening the jar and sticking his clean ring finger into the red viscosity. He took it out and sucked off the excess. It didn't taste as nice as he wanted, bland and barely seasoned, and he in good conscience couldn't use it as it was. He emptied it into a pan while the pasta water simmered, threw in a good amount of butter and a liberal mixture of spices, oregano, thyme, lemon pepper, garlic powder and salt, and by the time Vince drifted in looking needy the kitchen was inviting and fragrant.

Howard was expecting the usual petty cynicism when he put a heaping bowl of pasta in front of Vince. Vince looked at his fork and said, "Do you think I'll look all right?"

Howard stopped formulating his defensive monologue about how this pasta dish was famous all over Italy and its various environs and said, "What?"

"I mean, if I keep eating like this. Do you think I'll look all right?"

"What do you mean? You'll look the same, won't you? You'll still dress like an idiot and your hair will be ridiculous. You'll be the same Vince you always were."

Vince looked relieved and Howard didn't know why. "Thanks, Howard," he said and stuck a fork into the pasta. "Do we have anything for afters?"

"Finish your dinner first," Howard said. He was glaring at the shaker full of what was supposed to be Parmesan. He was sure it was just flecks of grated plastic. He'd have to see if he could find something better.

"I've still got a bunch of flying saucers and dolly mix," Vince said. "I can give you some if you want."

"I'd rather eat a shoe."

"Suit yourself," Vince said and shook a small mountain of the putative Parmesan over his food, not seeming to notice that he was using subpar cheese. Howard would have to get to work training up his taste buds.

*****

Howard had a system in place. He got up, made breakfast for the two of them, then quickly assembled lunch once the washing up was done, then went downstairs for work. Once the shop was closed, he either went on a grocery run or went upstairs to start their dinner, and then there was always more washing up to do before he could go to bed.

He figured that Vince's goldfish attention span would soon tire of a steady diet of porridge, salads and pasta, so he tried to branch out, making soups and stir-fries and risottos and casseroles, all of which were theoretically meant to provide leftovers, but which usually wound up disappearing down Vince's gullet instead. He was normally averse to providing sweets, but Vince loved them and it was a shame to make him go without. He disliked the texture of shop-bought shortcrust and he couldn't walk through London carrying entire cakes and have them survive the journey intact, so he started making larger versions of his usual little cakes, which always made Vince smile.

Howard didn't know if it was eating actual meals or just Naboo's potion, but it didn't take long before he started noticing a change in Vince. His face was softer, the planes of his cheekbones less prominent and his jawline a bit blurrier. The change suited him, Howard thought, made his face a little less busy and brought out the delicacy of his mouth and eyes. He wouldn't say it out loud because Vince would laugh at him but his mind was his own and he could do what he liked with it.

"Look, Howard," Vince told him one night after dinner, as Howard was trying to scrub chocolate cake crumbs off the plates. Howard said, "Whatever it is, you're going to have to come here and show me. I'm busy."

Vince came in the kitchen and without any preamble flipped up his Rolling Stones t-shirt to expose his belly. There was an unassuming jut to his stomach that hadn't been there before, accentuated by the line of thick black hair that started below his navel and continued past his abdomen. Vince poked the curve with one finger, carefully, then made an O with his thumb and index finger and framed it. "That's your food there, Howard. It's wicked. Here, feel it."

Howard took his hands out of the sink and put a hand over Vince's stomach. Vince flinched. "Cold hands!"

"They'll warm up in a minute," Howard said. Under his palm, Vince's belly was warm and firm. "This might be just dinner," he said, running his thumb along the side. "You haven't digested anything yet."

"Don't care," Vince said. "I'm going to start wearing belly shirts. Show this off a bit. You can't tell me you're not a little impressed." He stroked the other side of his belly like it was a tiny, furry animal. "I can't believe I was ever worried that this wouldn't look amazing. I should have started eating years ago."

"I worry about you sometimes, Vince," Howard said, but didn't take his hand away.

*****

Howard jerked out of sleep with his heart pounding, bedcovers twisted around his ankles. Most of the nightmare vanished once he opened his eyes, but he was left existentially unsettled and too afraid to go back to sleep.

He thought he'd go in the front room and watch the television for a while, just until he felt more like himself. He got out of bed, eyes still half-shut, and staggered out of the room.

He was halfway down the hall when Vince's door opened and a sleepy voice said, "Howard? I heard you thrashing around next door. Awright?"

Vince's hair was sticking out in all directions. He was wearing a t-shirt that was too small for him now, fabric stretched across his body, and little blue briefs. He looked drowsy and soft and concerned.

Howard was not about to admit that he was too scared to go back to sleep because of some piffling bad dream. He was a man of action and a rugged explorer of various dark places. He said, voice thickened and full of Leeds, "There was burglar in t'flat. Had to subdue him. Ten burglars."

"Right," Vince said. "Well, if you're done with fighting them off, do you want a cup of tea? Or I can make us some hot chocolate, I could use a snack."

Howard thought for a moment. Vince was hopeless with most food preparation, but in terms of hot drink craft he was second to none. "No marshmallows."

"You'll get a deeply manly hot cocoa. Won't be a minute."

Howard blearily made it to the settee and listened to Vince clattering around in the kitchen. Before Howard's brain could remember how to work the remote for the television, Vince reappeared with two huge mugs, one piled high with marshmallows and hundreds and thousands, the other reassuringly plain. He handed Howard the plain mug and flopped down on the settee. Some of the mug splashed onto his hand and down his delicate, hairy wrist, and Vince hardly blinked. He absently raised his hand and licked up the spill with a quick flash of pink tongue. Howard would have ordinarily tutted at him for bad manners but he didn't feel up to it at this time of night. He took a drink, swallowed warm creamy chocolate tinged with cinnamon and black pepper, the way he liked it.

"Howard?" Vince asked. He tucked one sturdy, hairy leg under him and peered at Howard over the rim of his mug. "Howard, do you remember when we were at school? When we used to have lunch on the playground together?"

Howard remembered very well. He'd been twelve years old and furious the first time it had happened. He was having to eat his packed lunch outside alone, like a _baby_ , because his mother had finally thrown up her hands and stopped giving him lunch money after Howard kept getting beaten up and robbed in the lunchroom. He was too big and gawky to ever stop being a target and his mother couldn't keep wasting money, especially since she was a newly divorced woman with limited funds. So Howard had to make his own lunch and now he had no one to eat it with and he hated _everybody_.

"Awright, tiny eyes?" someone said. Howard glared in the direction of the voice. It was only Vince, looking much younger than his age, a short blond starveling with sparkles glued to his school uniform.

"What do you want?" Howard said. "Shouldn't you be having lunch with all your _other_ friends? Because I don't need you here. I'm having fun all by myself."

"Aw, c'mon," Vince said. He sat cross-legged in the dirt next to Howard. "It's well boring in there. We've got to be in the sunshine!"

"Sunshine gives you brain damage, everybody knows that," Howard said.

"Not me, it doesn't," Vince said.

Vince didn't seem like he was about to leave anytime soon, so Howard sighed heavily and said, "Well, I suppose you can stay here if you don't bother me then. Where's your lunch?"

Vince's eyes flicked to the side. There was a split-second pause and then he smiled and said, "I ate it already! It was candyfloss and fried clouds! It was delicious, you should have seen it."

Howard felt worse than ever. If Vince wasn't out here, he could be in the lunchroom charming someone into paying for the lunch he obviously didn't have, but instead he was out here with Howard. Howard didn't know what to do, so he snapped, "That's a stupid lunch. You can't fry a cloud, it turns into smoke and disappears before it gets in your mouth. That's _stupid_."

"Jealous," Vince said smugly.

"I'm not going to be jealous of your tooth decay, I'll tell you that, sir," Howard said. "Look at my lunch. It's all nice and it's nice. You should have some and make up for your stupid lunch."

"My genius food tops your boring old beige food any day," Vince said, but he wasn't saying no.

Howard offered half of his ham sandwich, which Vince shook his head to, so Howard gave him his Monster Munch and carrot sticks instead. By the time the bell rang for them to get inside, they were both laughing.

After school they went round to Howard's house and Howard set about making beans on toast for tea. Vince watched suspiciously as Howard emptied the Heinz into a pan. "Are you quite sure you can cook, Howard?"

"I'm the greatest chef in all Yorkshire!" Howard yelped, his voice cracking embarrassingly in mid-sentence. "You'll never get better grub than this anywhere."

Vince still looked doubtful. "Maybe your mum could help."

Howard shook his head. "She's at work. She won't be back until I'm in bed." He hoped Vince wouldn't ask more about that. Howard had heard his mother crying some nights when she thought he was sleeping, and then there were the one-sided arguments with his dad on the phone, and thinking about it too much made Howard upset.

Luckily the toast popped up before he could start thinking about it. He lowered the heat on the beans, spread some margarine over the toast and then poured the beans over everything while Vince made the tea. After they'd sat down Vince took a cautious bite, then scarfed down everything on the plate and declared that it was genius, as Howard knew he would.

"I should go round to your house sometime," he told Vince. "We'll have tea there."

For the briefest second, Vince looked panicky. Then the smile was back and he said, "Yeah! You should come over! I always have lots of food! Like ice cream and Smarties, and, and all kinds of things. It'll be great."

Howard wasn't sure what to do for a minute. Finally he went with what came naturally. "Ugh, that sounds horrid. Your walls are probably all sticky with sugar."

"Nah, it's brilliant."

"We need proper food. It's good for the brain, sir," Howard said, repeating an oft-heard phrase of his mother's. "You're better off coming here for tea."

"Oh, thanks awfully, Your Lordship," Vince said, but he wasn't saying no. 

When they were younger, Vince never complained of being hungry, but he never turned down food. Howard didn't know how to talk about it so all he could do was share his lunches and have Vince over for tea every day. For the most part it worked. He only worried during the summer holidays, when he went home to Leeds to stay with his dad. He'd have brought Vince along if he could, but there was barely enough room and money for Howard in his dad's tiny flat near the college. His dad slept on the sofa so that Howard could have a bed. Howard tried not to think of how Vince got by when he was gone.

When they were about seventeen, Vince started carrying around scrapbooks full of magazine models, all of them trendy and stylish and painfully thin, and he started turning his nose up at Howard's sandwiches and salads and stews. Instead there was malt loaf and juice fasts and handfuls of processed sugar, but never too much, and he was trendy and stylish and existing on nothing. Howard sometimes wondered if that was just what Vince was used to, Vince who never had enough, Vince who must have known hunger like Howard never had.

"Howard," Vince said again, looking at him strangely over his now-empty mug. "Do you remember?"

Howard shook himself out of it and took a gulp of his hot chocolate. "Yeah. I remember."

Vince smiled. "Brilliant, wasn't it?"

Howard looked at him. Vince was pink-cheeked from the heat of the chocolate, and his t-shirt had ridden up over his belly, a flash of pale soft skin. "Yeah," Howard said. "Brilliant."

*****

Howard only realized he'd overestimated his capacity when he was putting dinner on the table. Between preparing breakfast and lunch, the shop, the emergency grocery run after work and the long trek home laden with heavy bags, a fiddly, labor-intensive menu of mushroom-stuffed tofu with roast potatoes, and getting the place settings how he liked them, he was actually swaying on his feet with exhaustion.

Vince discreetly ignored it at first, but after the third time Howard attempted to take a bite of potato and missed his mouth by a good two centimeters, he said, "Uh, Howard?"

"What?" Howard said. His eyes were aching.

"You feel like letting me do the washing up tonight? You look half-dead."

"I am meditating on the day's events," Howard said, then accidentally put his elbow in the middle of his dinner. "Fuck."

"Yeah, okay. How about you go meditate in the front room with the telly for a bit? It's not right, a man of your age running himself ragged this way. I'll bring your tea for you when I'm done."

"We're the same age," Howard pointed out, but he was too groggy to say much else. He staggered out into the front room and turned on the television. It all looked like a wash of bright colors and sounded like gentle white noise, mixing in with the sound of Vince humming in the kitchen. Howard wondered if he should have protested a bit more, laid claim to his role as king of the kitchen despite the fact that he couldn't keep his eyes open at the moment. He could barely even feel the settee under him anymore, perhaps he was floating in space –

"Howard," Vince said sharply above him, and then there were hands on his shoulders, pulling him back, anchoring him down.

"Don't touch me," Howard said without much heat.

"You're about to fall on the floor. If you want to break your face, don't do it in front of me, all right?" Vince sat down next to him. With an attempt at dignity, Howard forced himself up onto one elbow and tried to open his eyes. The combined effort was too much, and the elbow gave out and sent him sprawling in Vince's lap.

"You are _drunk_ ," Vince said. He shifted his weight and effectively turned his lap into a pillow for Howard. "Not a drop to drink, and you're an absolute shambles. What're you doing?"

"'M not tired," Howard informed Vince's leg. Unless he was mistaken, there were a lot more pleasantly squidgy bits to Vince than there had been, more of a voluptuous spread to his football-toned thighs.

"Tell me another one," Vince said, absently carding his fingers through Howard's hair. Howard knew he should protest, but Vince was soft and warm and he smelled nice, so he let it go.

He woke up on the settee and managed barely to haul himself up against the cushions. He wasn't sure what day it was. He had a vague feeling the shop was closed today, but he was too groggy to be sure.

"Oh, you're up," Vince said above him. He put a plate down on the coffee table. "I tried not to wake you. Do you want some of this?"

Howard took what was given and put it in his mouth before asking what it was or even opening his eyes all the way. He tasted ripe pear, sweet grainy juice flooding over his tongue, and then there was the bite of Stilton, heavy and rich. Vince sat down beside him and Howard instantly sagged against his shoulder. Vince didn't seem to mind, just cut another slice of pear and another chunk of cheese with his deft French peasant's hands and gave it to him. It took Howard another minute to remember why they even had pears and cheese in the first place.

"This was for the salad," he said with his mouth full. "Spinach and pear and walnut with Stilton. We'll have no lunch now."

"Well, I _do_ beg your pardon, Mister Chef," Vince said. "This was what I wanted." He spread some cheese on his pear slice and bit into it unconcernedly.

"And we've got no toast," Howard grumbled. "I like my toast."

"I know, but I'd just burn it and you're too sleepy to cook. Eat your breakfast."

Vince had a point. Howard accepted another pear slice and chewed it thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose I could make some sautéed spinach," he said. "Sautéed spinach and cauliflower cheese. That's easy enough. And maybe we'll have cake. Coffee and walnut."

Vince hummed in approval. Howard said, "We might be low on milk. I'll go check in a minute."

"I've been thinking, Howard."

"Dangerous."

Vince ignored him. "I think it's time for Vince Noir to come back from his island holiday. I've got to get out and show my new shape off, Howard. And I need to buy new clothes sharpish. None of them fit me anymore."

Howard peered at him. He supposed it was true that Vince was looking a little more well-fed. He thought, with a surprising amount of regret, that Vince wouldn't need him to cook anymore now that he was back in fashion. "Well, that's fine," he said. "Get you out of the flat. Out of my hair."

"I thought," Vince said, "that, if you'd like, I could maybe start picking up the groceries if I'm out? Save you wandering about with your shopping bags looking like a tramp?"

Howard bristled. "I _can_ do it, you know."

"I know you can do it, but I'm young and strong. If you keep on doing everything by yourself, you'll wear yourself out completely. You'll try to make dinner and fall asleep on the hob. Your mustache will go up in flame. Little Jimmy Flame-Face."

"I –" Howard started, then thought, no, he actually did need Vince to do the shopping for him. And Vince hadn't said for him to stop cooking, either. He had his doubts about whether Vince would remember mundane ingredients like flour and vegetables, but maybe if Howard provided a list they could work it out.

Vince was looking at him, nervously chewing on his index finger. Howard huffed and said, "Well, all right."

Vince smiled and gave him more cheese.

*****

Howard had underestimated Vince's talent for shopping. He could find spice shops, farmer's markets, hidden cheese caverns, and then come back to the flat, fresh as a daisy and waving the shopping bags triumphantly. He took over the washing up duties without being asked, wearing rubber gloves so not to spoil his manicure, and practically vibrated with excitement when Howard brought a meal out.

Howard was loath to admit it but he appreciated having the extra time to spend in the kitchen. Occasionally as a treat for himself he made a trip to the bookshop in search of new cookery books, in the hopes of finding the perfect recipe for his talents. He began growing herbs in a window box, basil and rosemary and lemon balm and coriander, and from there it was easy to start making bread over the weekends. The kitchen was poky and not a great setup for baking, but Howard enjoyed a challenge and he appreciated how nowadays the flat was full of a fragrant mélange of yeast and spices on top of whatever he was cooking that day, like the olfactory version of a deep jazz groove. He was thinking about buying a pasta maker.

Vince had either replaced or let out most of his wardrobe, but Howard really hadn't heard any news about how his re-entry to the Camden social scene had gone. He assumed it was all right because Vince seemed happy, but he wasn't about to pry for any details that an intellectual and poetic man like himself didn't need to know.

Howard was just finishing up the next week's menu when one of the ninjas arrived with _Cheekbone_. Vince was still out, so he accepted it. He started to put it aside when he caught sight of the cover. Amidst the usual blurbs of Thick Thighs in 30 Days! and Gain Two Sizes!, there on the cover was Vince, dirty smile in place, eye-fucking the camera for all he was worth. The headline read, Vince Noir – He's Back and Hotter Than Ever!

"The little tart," Howard said fondly, secretly pleased. He went back to his menu planning. After a while Vince came up the stairs, flushed from the outside air and laden with shopping bags. "Awright, Howard?"

"All right," Howard said. "Put those away, got something to show you." He waited until Vince returned from the kitchen to give him the magazine.

Vince took it. "Oh, look, it's out already. Genius. I'll put that in the scrapbook later. Anyway, Howard, you'll never guess who I met at Spice Mountain."

Howard wondered why Vince didn't seem more excited about _Cheekbone_. Surely this was the validation he'd been craving. "Who?"

"I met this bloke, Moe," Vince said. "He's part of this amateur football club. It's called the Battling Butterballs, how cool is that? We got to talking and he wants me to come down and try out. Says I'll be great for the team. Honestly I think they could use my sartorial expertise. They've been practicing in these horrid tracksuits. Well dated. I said I'd help them out. I'll be the new George Best! Maybe without the liver transplant though. Howard, isn't that great?" Vince was glowing.

Howard thought, _Vince Noir caring about something other than trendies, isn't that something_. He said, "Sounds great, Vince. Tell me more about it over dinner. You hungry?"

Vince smiled. "Always."

*****

Vince was at a party, and Howard was absolutely not waiting up for him to get back. He'd spent most of the evening updating the food blog that Vince had finally persuaded him to start, Shafafa On The Side, but there were only so many things he could tweak in the end, and he was unaccountably nervous.

Finally he decided to get back in the kitchen and fiddle with the new rice pudding recipe. He'd been trying to put a tropical spin on it, adding coconut milk and chopped mangos and his homemade stem ginger, but he still wasn't sure it was matching up to the version in his head. He was doing this in the pursuit of art, not because he was waiting for Vince.

He felt better after stirring coconut milk into grains of rice for half an hour. He was just adding in the fruit and ginger when he heard Vince coming up the stairs. Howard set the serving bowl to one side and poked his head out. "How'd it go, belle of the ball?" he asked, meaning to be teasing but sounding rather more gentle instead.

Vince was all in white with feathers around his wrists and throat, looking like a plump, slightly tipsy dove. His hair was a little sweaty, his eye makeup a little smeared. "Fantastic. Brought the house down. That smells nice."

"I'm not sure about it yet," Howard said. "Try some. Soak up the liquor." He brought out the bowl and a couple of spoons, watched Vince blow carefully on his spoonful before tasting the pudding and giving Howard an approving nod.

"Oh, before I forget," Vince said. "The Butterballs have a match coming up over the weekend. It's just for a laugh, but – well, Moe's bringing his girlfriend and the kids, and Archie's bringing his husband, and Danny's going to bring whoever he's decided he's in love with this week, and I said I'd see if I could bring my Howard."

Howard gave him a sidelong look. "Your Howard, eh?"

"Yeah," Vince said, and pressed a boozily impulsive kiss to Howard's cheek. Howard startled and Vince pulled away. "I didn't know I was – I didn't – if you -"

Vince was blushing scarlet. Howard was blushing. He looked at his hands, feeling scared and shy and gawkily adolescent. "Vince, I don't know anything about it."

"I don't care," Vince said fiercely.

Howard put his hand out. Vince wrapped his fingers around Howard's and pulled him in.

Vince tasted even sweeter than the pudding. Howard could hear the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding crazily, and he was utterly terrified and utterly ready to see what would happen next.

His lips were feeling bruised, and the feathers on Vince's outfit were making him want to sneeze. Vince let him go and Howard frantically scrubbed the itch out of his nose. Vince laughed a little and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, letting Howard lean against him. "I got lipstick on you," he said apologetically, and swiped his thumb across Howard's mouth. "It's a good look. The ravished maiden look."

"Ravished maiden? There's nothing maidenly about me, sir. Ravished I'll give you, but otherwise I'm going to draw the line right there."

Vince rolled his eyes. "So do you want to come this weekend or not?"

"Yeah, all right," Howard said. "Do you think your mates will be all right with me?"

"If they aren't, then they aren't my mates," Vince said. "But bring some snacks along with you just in case. That's a good way to make them fall in love with you."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Howard said, and when Vince went to kiss him again, he didn't even hesitate.


End file.
